kneel at your altar
by professortennant
Summary: "We make our own faith, love. We worship at our own altars. I may not believe in God or the church, but I believe in you. I believe in us. So," he pressed another kiss to her left cheek and then her right. Jean's breathing hitched and she shuddered beneath his gentle touch. "So, we worship here, Jean."


Lucien rubbed at his eyes and then pounded his fist on the desk. The situation was impossible and despite his promise to Jean, he was already planning on falling on his sharpened sword. What was his reputation worth if he didn't have Jean by his side-as his _wife_ -to share it with?

Sighing heavily, he pushed himself up from the desk, drained the last of his scotch, dimmed the lights and treaded off to bed. The night used to hold the most terrors for him: nightmares and memories swirling together to prevent him from sleeping. Now, with Jean sharing his bed, it was his most treasured time of the day.

They had agreed neither were ready for sex quite yet-not until they were married; that was a step too far. But sharing a bed, wrapping themselves around the other, and exchanging soft, tempting kisses under the cover of darkness was something they both needed. After too many missed moments and wasted time, they needed this shared closeness to reaffirm their relationship.

Pushing the door of their bedroom door open (he still loved the way his heart fluttered at _their_ ), he expected to find Jean fast asleep. Instead, she was laying on her side, wiping at teary eyes. He was at her side in an instant, kneeling beside her. "Jeannie?"

* * *

Jean sniffled and tried to turn her face away from him, but Lucien caught her chin in his hands and turned her back to face him. "Love, don't hide from me. Not now."

"I'm so angry, Lucien." The whispered confession knocked the breath out of him. He swallowed hard. He supposed this was only a matter of time. Jean had realized what a waste of time he was; that he wasn't worth the trouble. He felt his heart sink to his stomach.

"I'm so sorry, Jean. I wish I could fix this for you; be better for you." He released his hold on her and fell back onto his heels, readying himself to stand. "I'll sleep in the office, tonight?"

Jean scrambled to sit up, confused. "Wha-Lucien, _no_. I'm not angry at you." She grasped his hand and held tight, refusing to let him go. "Lucien, I'm mad at the church."

His breath returned to him in an instant and he felt lightheaded at the relief rushing through him. She still wanted him, still loved him. Lucien winced at the creaking of his knees but he resumed his position kneeling by her side and looked up at her, rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand.

"Why?"

Jean bit her lip and then reached out to caress his face, echoing her touch earlier in his study. "How can they think this is wrong, Lucien? We were put in an impossible circumstance and we're doing the best we can. But how can they not see how _right_ this is. You feel it, too, right?" She looked at him imploringly.

"Oh, Jean." He kissed her hand and the delicate skin of her wrist. "I feel it every day. And I will marry you, Ballarat and the church be damned." He looked at her, pained. "I'm sorry, Jean, that was insensitive of me to say. I know what the church means to you."

But Jean was shaking her head. "That's what I mean, Lucien. The church has been my home for so long. Their words were my guiding compass. And now," she looked so lost, so upset. "And now I am having _doubts_. How can they say Eve Neville deserves eternal damnation? How can they say that our love-our marriage-is invalid in the eyes of God? How can they demand we perjure ourselves and distort the truth? How-"

She was working herself into hysterics and the tears were flowing down her cheeks freely. Lucien brushed the tears from her cheeks and gathered her to his chest. She buried her face in the crook of his neck and cried for the things she couldn't control; cried for the unfairness of it all.

"It's not fair, Lucien. It's not fair." His own eyes were stinging with tears and he was helpless to do anything else but stroke her hair and coo words of comfort in her ear.

Sniffling, Jean pulled herself away from his embrace, still clutching at his lapels and shoulder, grounding herself. "Lucien, I have been a member of the Catholic church since I was a little girl. I was married there. My children were baptized there. I have never wanted to leave it. But how can I worship there when it feels wrong?"

Lucien continued to stroke his fingers over her face, thinking. He didn't know what words of comfort to offer her. His mother and father were not particularly religious and the Church only baffled him. The relationship he had with God-however tenuous-was complicated and fleeting. It was nothing like Jean's.

Truthfully, the only thing he believed in with absolute certainty was Jean. And then he understood perfectly what Jean needed.

He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "It feels wrong to worship at that church? Then we make our own faith, love. We worship at our own altars. I may not believe in God or the church, but I believe in you. I believe in _us_. So," he pressed another kiss to her left cheek and then her right. Jean's breathing hitched and she shuddered beneath his gentle touch. "So, we worship here, Jean."

He leaned her back against the pillows and crawled onto the bed, covering her body with his own. "I know you will protect me and watch over me." A kiss to each of her eyes, his lips picking up the salt of her tears. Jean sighed beneath him, hands clutching at his back.

"I know you will guide me through times of trouble and offer me solace and shelter during the storm." A kiss to the curve of her neck and under her jaw.

"I kneel before you and offer you everything I am, without expectation." A kiss to her lips, tongue sweeping briefly over her bottom lip. She trembled in his arms and gasped his name.

"That's it, love. Each gasp is a prayer and a promise." He rolled off of her and gathered her to him, arms wrapping around her back and pulling her close. He slotted a leg between hers, entwining their legs. Perhaps on another day this would be sexual, an invitation for her to rock against him. But there was only love and peace and praise here. Just quiet adulation.

Jean was crying gently against his shoulder, grip tight on his shoulders. "Oh, Lucien, that's blasphemous." But her whisper was half-hearted. She stroked the softness of his beard and then made her own vows. "I know you will protect me and watch over me."

Lucien pressed a kiss to the top of her head, nuzzling at her hair. Jean continued, echoing his words-his prayer. "I know you will guide me through times of trouble and offer me solace and shelter during the storm."

Jean tugged at his arm from around her back and laced her hands with his. She lifted their joined hands to her mouth, kissing each point where their skin met, lingering on his ring finger. "I kneel before you and offer you everything I am, without expectation."

She lifted her head to his and found him already looking down at her, eyes shining with unshed tears. His eyes were even bluer than normal and Jean knew it was because of _her_ that he looked like this: happy and sure and wonderfully, impossibly in love.

Lucien ducked down and sealed their shared prayer with a kiss. Jean sighed into the kiss and tried to memorize everything about this moment: the feel of Lucien's hands on her body, the way his beard tickled her lips, the way he tasted, the way he looked at her, everything.

He pulled away and then peppered soft kisses over her forehead, nose, and lips before kissing the top of her head. "We're going to be okay, love. I _promise_ you."

Jean tucked herself beneath his chin, "I know, Lucien. I know." And here, wrapped in his arms in their shared bed, Jean found a new religion, a new compass: her love for Lucien Blake.

They would be okay. And as she closed her eyes, she prayed.


End file.
